Home.
Warmth and safety, that's what your embrace has always meant to me. Some of the best memories of my childhood are colored in the scent of your embrace, in the steady hold of your strong arms that would never let me go. Even as I grew up and realized there was more there than just that promise of security, still I ran to you. It was when the two urges collided, when the need for you clashed up against the wall of my rush to maturity and the confusion of too much war and death that I lost my way in the darkness.
That sounds like stupid thing to say, doesn't it? It's the kind of thing you hear people spout when given the microphone at rehab meetings, when you sit in the back and snicker behind the false concealment of your hands. Still, I can't quite get the thought out of my head as I cling to you, sobbing silent quaking tears into your shoulder and hoping in vain that you won't notice.
Home.
Your arms loosen around me and I force a deep breath of air into my lungs, resisting the urge to wipe one hand across my eyes like a forlorn child. Instead I look up and meet your gaze, my heart contracting in my chest as I see the telltale sheen of tears obscuring the warm chocolate brown, silvery trails of sadness dripping down your face and trembling on the edge of your chin.
My fault. All of that sadness, all of the waste you've made of your life because of me, it's all so fucking pointless. I want to tear myself away and run again. Hide myself from the words trembling just on the edge of your lips. I can see them in your eyes, and I think I'll scream and finally step over the edge into madness if I hear you speak them. I don't deserve that kind of devotion. I deserve your hatred, your scorn, maybe even your pity.
I can feel myself starting to shake, a reaction above and beyond the tattered shreds of my emotions. No, this isn't you and me. This is only the familiar physiological need for another hit, the need for the hazy realm of oblivion, and as I stare wordlessly into the achingly familiar contours of your face I hate myself for that need.
Maybe that's why I decide to stay.
I think you sense some of my internal battles, because the words miraculously remain unsaid. Somehow you defy all logic and swallow them back into the depths of regret, something to come to light another day when things are more clear between us, when the merest tremble of your voice doesn't send me spiraling down old paths of anguish.
Instead you say what might be the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.
"I'm sorry."
My eyes go wide with disbelief and before I can stop myself laughter brimming with hysteria tears itself out of my chest. I can see the shock in your eyes that gives way to hurt, but I can't stop. It's been too long since I really laughed, and why the hell can't you see how funny that is?
I drop back down on the couch, really looking you in the face for the first time. "You're sorry?"
Your jaw tightens again, hurt giving way to anger, and I try frantically to explain. "Don't you see? After everything I've done to you, you should be kicking my ass into next week, and you're? apologizing to me?"
You stare down at me for another silent minute while I try for a semblance of control, my whole body still shaking with laughter. I wave one hand towards the other end of the couch. "I'm the one who should be saying I'm sorry. I should be down on my fucking knees begging your forgiveness." The snickers start up again, the recalcitrant sounds of a drowning man desperately clinging to a life preserver in the middle of a storm-tossed sea. "I'M the one who's sorry."
A smile finally cracks the surface, lighting your eyes as you drop down beside me, setting me off all over again. I can't help myself. No one but you would apologize for letting me ruin his life. There's something tragic about that, but I think I prefer hysteria. Besides, you look transformed with that smile on your face, even if the edges are a bit uncertain. You should always look that way. I never want to see that sadness touch your eyes again.
I reach out one hand to touch your shoulder, to make sure one more time that you're real. Your skin's warm beneath the thin layer of your shirt, burning into me with an intensity that would be painful if it wasn't for the shelter of the laughter.
So buffered by my helplessness I ignore it, curling up against you as the laughter dies away and is replaced by a silence that's as warm and gentle as a summer rain. For the first time in years I let my eyes drift closed without the aid of a frightening mix of chemicals to fight off the dreams. Tomorrow things may all go to hell again, but tonight I'm too tired to care.
Tonight all I want is to go home.
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